transformers2005fandomcom-20200215-history
Indecent Proposal
Mesoamerican Ballgame Court - Tetrahex(#9690Rn) The actual ball field isn't much, just matte purple metal, roughly sanded to give it some traction. The bleachers are simple benches of painted sandstone, cut to show off the attractive patterning. The goals, however, are intricately carved hoops with a braided pattern, like coaxial cable, on them, and there are murals on the walls, showing Autobot Headmasters being captured, beheaded, and their heads being used as balls for the game. A suggestions, perhaps? Contents: Fleet(#6048) XF-35B Astral Lightning (#6792) Coldwar(#9837) Obvious exits: Tetrahex The Decepticon's newest form of entertainment takes place in a Meso-American-inspired ball court. The purpose is to kick your opponent's severed head through the intricatly formed hoops at either end of the stone-lined court, a perfect way to unwind after having exterminated your rivls on the field of battle. It fits in very well with the Decepticons. Today, no formal games are being held, and instead a lone Decepticon is running drills along the court's perimeter, heavy iron weights bolted to his legs and arms; It is Redshift, and even weighrd down, he makes impressive speeds as he circles the court. Fleet is here. He hasn't been here for very long, but then, he didn't just get here, either. He observes the figure on the court with some curiosity from his place in the bleachers, then glances over the murals on the walls. XF-35B Astral Lightning has been... hiding out. The last time people got brainwashed, aside from that time with Rodimus Prime, they ended up working for the robot devil, so this whole situation has her spooked. Mexico is as good a place to hide out as any, she reasons, a nice place to lay low, but as she circles over the ball court, she notices... people. And groans. After a fresh round of repairs Coldwar steps into the odd Mesoamerican Ballgame Court, having been told by Hackjob that Redshift could be found there. The battle with Whirl took its toll on the soldier, but he was ever ready to get right back into the fight... Once his subsystems were back at one-hundred percent. Of course it would be a little while before that happened, and so he was eager to keep busy in any way possible, which included reporting to his superiors directly and filing paperwork. Snapping to attention upon reaching Redshift the Soldier salutes. "DEC-511 Coldwar reporting in post grid Rho CAP, Sir." *CLANG*CLANG*CLANG* Redshift's feet bang rhythmicly on the stony covering of the court as he makes his rounds, but he is visibly showing signs of fatigue, in more ways than one; His feet are nearly mangled from the punishment inflicted upon them. The weary Decepticon comes to a slow stop as Coldwar approaches, no doubt freshly repaired after his sojourn with Whirl. Redshift waves down the salute, and looks at the exhuberant soldier tiredly. "Back already? Y'know, the one you really ought to be reporting to is Catechism. Or Dreadwinbd, but you.. Probably don't want to do that." Fleet examines Redshift curiously, head tilted the way he seems to be damaging himself. He then tilts his head up and watches the vessel circling overhead. "Hmmm. Well, it would seem that at least one of them are available," he observes loud enough to be heard by Redshift and Coldwar. XF-35B Astral Lightning is called out by Fleet, and she says audibly, "Phooey,", though the sound of her engines makes it muffles. She lands straight down, hovering, until she's on the court floor with a rush of wind. Then, she rises up into her robot mode and squits at the new soldier. "Huh. HV-911 Eagle Eye UAV? About /time/ we got one." She points a finger at Coldwar. "You'll never have to worry about disgusting human spawnlings trying to get into your cockpit at airshows, since you don't have one. Lucky slagger." XF-35B Astral Lightning transforms into robot form. Catechism's feet unfold, her arms unfold out of her body, her nosecone rotates through her body and ends up on her shoulders to expose her face, and her wings rotate into position. Lowering his arm as Redshift dismisses it with a brief gesticulation, Coldwar joins his hands together behind his back as he assumes a parade rest. "Yes, Sir. I have not had the priviledge of meeting the Wing Commander just yet. The Air Commander and I have served together before, however that was quite some time ago." The barest hint of concern flashes within Coldwar's expression, though it is so subtle that one would likely need to have 'eagle eyes' to have noticed. Redshift's warning could only mean one thing...Dreadwind had not changed a bit in all of these millions of solar cycles. Fleet's interjection draws a glance, and Coldwar's gaze travels a bit farther- bringing Catechism into view. After a brief salute, Coldwar nods once curtly to the Wing Commander. "Yes, Ma'am. I consider myself very fortunate. DEC-511 Coldwar- honored to serve as your subordinate, Ma'am." While panting and sweating are scarcely appropriate for a giant death robot, Redshift still seems worn out, and the heavy weights bolted to his limbs clearly aren't helping. He fidgits with some of the bolts, but doesn't seem to want to remove them despite the obvious discomfort. He gestures with a heavy hand towards Coldwar, the newest Decepticon in the Earth forces. "Catechism, this is Coldwar. I'm sure you've heard him on the radio. I think he wants to deliver a report about being buried under rocks and left for dead by Whirl." Redshift says, hoping to take a bit of the wind out of Coldwar's sails. His dim gaze then shifts to Fleet, and the red Decepticon slogs closer to the flighty Seeker. "Fleet. I think we need to talk." "Very formal," Fleet observes softly, looking at Coldwar. As Redshift approaches him he frowns and steps back, glancing around for possible escape routes. Redshift is faster than he is. Therefore, body of water are his best bet. "Erm... we do, Wingman?" Coldwar has left. Coldwar has arrived. Catechism looks at Redshift suspiciously, who appears to be trying to foist the galaxy's politest Decepticon upon her so that he can go chat up the galaxy's second politest Decepticon. She looks Coldwar over in a bit more detail, tilts her head to one side, and she says softly, "Er... Coldwar, is it? Have you ever actually heard anything about me?" Most people who have heard anything about her wouldn't greet her like that. Then, Catechism remembers protocol and tosses off a quick salute to Coldwar and waves a hand in the air. "At ease." Ma'am," Coldwar replies before resuming his parade rest. An optic ridge quirks slightly, as a the Decepticon appears to grow a bit curious as to the meaning of the Wing Commander's inquiry. "I have heard that you are adept at getting results." Everything else he has heard is not shared, as he seems to hold tightly to his new status as the 'galaxy's politest Decepticon'. Redshift sighs tiredly, and he takes out a small silver flask from a hip compartment. After taking a long pull on the flask, his gaze brightens considerably. He holds the flask out to Fleet, if the pale yellow Seeker cares to partake. "Don't even think about running. Even with all this scrap-iron bolted to my legs, I can still run faster than you." He pauses, watching Fleet closely in case he /does/ need to chase him down. "How long have you been watching? What do you think I've been /doing/?" Coldwar has already received the maximum number of +noms for this week. Go nominate someone else whose roleplaying you have enjoyed! "No, thank you," Fleet responds at the offer. He studies Redshift's feet and the iron bolted onto it and hmmms. "I would think that would interferre with transformation," he observes absently, then looks up and gives a quick shrug. "But I have no intention of running." He is, after all, a jet. "I would guess that you are attempting to improve your land speed, but it's possible you were working on your manueverability while weighed down." Catechism scratches the back of her cone and considers Coldwar's reply. She laughs, a barking, jagged sound like torn metal, and she admits, "Oh yeah, I get results. That's correct." Sometimes, Catechism's results defy the laws of physics and make everyone's head hurt. But she gets them. Catechism smiles, seemingly fairly laid back, and prods, "So... buried by the Wrecker Whirl and alive to tell the tale?" She pays a bit of attention to the other conversation going on - to strive to better one's self to the limits and beyond, to sing the song of the razor's edge, to push the design envelope - that is a meet and proper goal for any Decepticon. Redshift takes another pull on the flask since Fleet refuses his offer, and stows it away neatly. His optics brighten yet again, but he's still showing weariness. "Pretty much exactly that. Sort of... It's not my landspeed, or maneuverability when encumbered by all this garbage." He replies, leaning against the wall as he continues to try and recuperate. "Apparantly this is how humans learn to run faster, but I had my doubts it would work for a REAL lifeform instead of a filthy organic... And it isn't working, it's just grinding my gears down. But there's nothing wrong with my technology -I'm built with the best parts and with upgrades by the best minds the Decepticons have to offer... and it isn't fast /enough/." Redshift says, voice drawing into a low, frustrated growl. "And that, dear Fleet, is where you come in." "But you're already faster than I am," Fleet observes cooly, studying Redshift. "You were just boasting about it." Laughter coming from his superiors after speaking is never really a clear sign of them being laid back in Coldwar's experience. In fact, it was not uncommon for laughter to precede some form of terrible, and often sudden punishment. Luckily, what Coldwar has heard of Catechism does not suggest that he has much to worry about in that regard. "Yes, Ma'am. Our paths crossed during a routine CAP in grid Rho. After acquiring visual I relayed ID information to Command, at which point Space Attack XO Blueshift ordered me to engage. He wanted to see how I would fare. Unfortunately one of his attacks relieved me of motor function using some form of nulification technolgoy, and he proceded to bury me using rock from the mountain range." Unknown to him, Coldwar seems to concur with Catechism's assessment of Redshift's bid to better himself. Catechism has, on occasion, been known to torture people, but that doesn't happen too often. She's usually more blunt and less subtle than that, anyway, more punch to the face than thumbscrew. When Coldwar mentions following Blueshift's orders, she makes a bit of a face, just for a split-second. Catechism folds her hands behind her back and paces, thinking about Coldwar's report. "Hmm. How did you get free?" "Don't play dumb with me, Fleet." Redshift says, voice flattening. He sighs, and begins again. "I can run and fly faster than you. I can fly faster than /anyone/ in my robot mode, even faster than Blurr can run if I activate all my thrusters and afterburners. But that isn't ENOUGH! You, Fleet, have something else. You don't have the auto-reflex servos I have, you don't have the angular momemtum multidirection thrusters I have, you don't have the raw /velocity/ I have.. But you have have something I don't. Something I /need/. I have all the technological advantages, but you..." Redshift stops, optics lighting brightly with desire... Or is it shame? "But you.. Are faster than me." The face made by the Wing Commander does not go unnoticed, but the good little Soldier says nothing of it. "Freeing myself was made easy by the fact that the rocks used to bury me were mostly of moderate to small size. Transforming to robot mode allowed me to shake several of the lighter stones loose, at which point it was just a matter of processor over matter to overcome the rest of the obstacle. Luckily the effects of the Wrecker's weapon wore off fairly quickly... I believe it was only meant to stun me temporarily, and leave me vulnerable to such an action, or a follow-up attack." As Catechism paces back and forth before him, Coldwar's chin remains lifted with his ruby red optics glued forward in uptmost adherence to military discipline. Fleet hmmms softly. "Perhaps marginally," he answers, considering. "Though I suspect you are running on better hardware. I had already pushed my skill subroutines to near their max before I was forced to resort to upgrade. But..." He pauses and gives Redshift a hard look. "You've already pointed out that you can outrun me. Why should I give up what advantage I have?" He tilts his head a moment, expression distracted as he considers the new arrival's story, then turns his focus back on Redshift. Catechism wonders if she was ever that parade perfect, in her youth. Probably not. Too clumsy, her. She muses aloud, "Weird that he didn't just kill you. Wreckers are known to be admirably brutal, for Autobots. However, it was clever of you to transform, and you made it home without needing a shameful rescue. Well done, Coldwar." "Thank you, Ma'am. Believe me, no one is more surprised that he did not attempt to drive home the attack than myself. Perhaps he did not wish to risk provoking another attack, as I am certain that he was aware of my deep scan target lock. I am curious to see what would have happened if we fought to the very end... However currently I am not at one-hundred percent combat efficiency," Coldwar offers, his tone just barely betraying the disappointment that he's feeling. "Ma'am, if I may... I would like to file an official report for the archives." "your skill subroutines, yes!" Redshift says excitedly. "That's what you have. I was never far off from the supply lines, so I always had access to new hardwar and new technologies, and pounced on them when I could, and relied on them for my stellar agility in battle. But you... You had to work at it -Very hard, I'm sure- and I want you to share the fruits of your labours. For the benefit of the Decepticon forces. With my technology and your skills, I could depose Dreadwind from his position as our dour and useless superior! And just think of the Autobots I will leave in ruins as I become /impossible/ to strike down!" Catechism snorts and replies, "The important thing about being walked wounded is that you're walking, eh? But sure, file a report for the archives. Maybe it'll help the rest of us in fights against Whirl." She sounds doubtful - other Decepticons often have problems with things like reading. Or learning. She pipes up and adds to the other conversation, pitching her voice louder, tone teasing, "Redshift, we left Fleet on Planet Hell for years! You wanna get ditched, too?" Fleet smiles brightly. "Yes. We could do that." "Yes, Ma'am." Tossing up a sharp salute, Coldwar holds it until dismissed- at which point the Decepticon takes his leave of the group in order to file a report using a handheld data device in a secluded grid of the court. Coldwar has left. "I had to put up with Blueshift for /seven million years/, wasn't that punishment enough?" Redshift asks wryly, hoping to lighten the mood. "You two are lucky. But, seriously, I thik you have much I could learn, Fleet. I've seen the way you fight, and you've bested me in the arena. I admit you' "I had to put up with Blueshift for /seven million years/, wasn't that punishment enough?" Redshift asks wryly, hoping to lighten the mood. "You two are lucky. But, seriously, I thik you have much I could learn, Fleet. I've seen the way you fight, and you've bested me in the arena. I admit you've got an advantage over me, and I think you know me well enough to know I /don't/ admit that very often. So, what have you got to lose?" "My advantage," Fleet answers simply. He tilts his head. "Redshift, you should know better. You've yet to tell me what /I/ get out of this." Catechism grins over at Fleet, though she's not sure that Fleet's joking. She suggests, "I think you need to offer some form of payment, Redshift. You're asking for something for nothing, and we are not a giving people." "Anything!" Redshift replies. "Name your price, Fleet. I have credits, weapons, a sibling I no longer need, anything." Catechism shifts uncomfortably when Redshift says 'anything'. Fleet's an odd, odd Seeker, and the anything he extracts from Redshift might be far more than Redshift is really willing to pay. Because seriously, she could see Fleet asking Redshift for an open-ended favour and then selling Redshift's soul to eternal demonic torture in order to save own armour later. One of the many charming things about Fleet. Fleet considers, gazing out at the ball court. He rubs his chin. "None of those sound particularly desirable, and easily enough obtained by other means. Except Blueshift, who's harder to get rid of." He looks at Redshift and shrugs his shoulder. "I would suggest that you can owe me a favor, but I can't trust you to repay once you have what you want." Redshift pauses thoughtfully. "A contract, then. Our dear Wing Commander here can draft up a legally binding contract, to which we become parties. And if I fail to keep my end of the bargain, you can collect my head." Catechism points out, "I think your body's a lot more useful than your head, but..." She shrugs, the wings that hand off her hips flicking. Catechism points out, "I think your body's a lot more useful than your head, but..." She shrugs, the wings that hang off her hips flicking. "...I can draft a contract and witness, if Fleet wants." She owes Fleet... several. He's saved her life. She fears the day that he comes to collect. Fleet is apparently quietly collecting Decepticons. This is just fine as long as he's working for the Empire. He /is/ working for the Empire, right? Fleet gives an absent shrug. "The head will be good enough." He gives a single nod of his head. "All right, your terms are acceptable, Redshift. I will enter into the drafted agreement." Catechism pulls out a piece of sheet metal, something a bit morre permanent than a datapad, and she offers, a bit excitedly, "Oh, oh, I could write it in Ancient Decepticon! I can speak and read that! Do you want me to?" She looks almost painfully hopeful and pulls out a combat knife to mark in the glyphs onto the sheet, waiting to hear what Redshift says. A smirk plays across Redshift's face, and he nods his agreement. "Very well! Glad we could come to some sort of accomodation, Fleet. Ancient Decepticon would be fine, Catechism." He adds, seeing how hopeful the wing commander is. Fleet hmmms softly as he considers this. "Although I would appreciate a clear translation," he adds as Redshift agrees to ancient Decepticon. Perhaps it would be more binding! Perhaps the one person who can read it can be persuaded to read it to his favor. Catechism is the only one here who understands Ancient Decepticon. And she's writing up the contract. They trust her that it says what she says it does? Maybe the fact that she's acting more like Scavenger than herself has something to do with that. She claps in glee and sits down on the court floor to scribe it out. Catechism tries to keep her 'handwriting' neat and tidy, since this is an official document, and she reads out as she writes, "Redshift, he of the stars, who is of sound mind and body," that's probably a lie, "hereby vows to repay Fleet, he of the sky, for services rendered in the skill of speed with a favour, to be collected in a format and time to be chosen by Fleet. If Redshift do default upon this oath, the curse of the Axe of Straxus be upon Redshift, and Fleet may collect the head of Redshift, by Decepticon law." Then, she scratches in two lines and looks up at Redshift and Fleet, asking, "Will that do?" Fleet rubs his chin, expression distant, as he considers matters. Finally, he gives a brief nod. "It is sufficient." Short. A lot of room for leeway. Vaugely worded. Very useful indeed. "Curse of Straxus? Fitting, I suppose." Redshift is rather /attached/ to his head, but this is something he needs, and nobody else is in a position to give it to him. He assumes Catechism has read the document correctly, afterall, she certainly doesn't owe Fleet anything more than she owes Redshift, right? "Very well. Agreed." Catechism smiles, but it is a grim smile, and she says softly, "I met Straxus, the father of our people - the father of lies. Straxus taught me his language. If I use his words, I find his curse very fitting indeed." She flips the knife in her hand, now holding it lightly by the flat of the blade, and holds up the sheet and the knife. "You two need to sign it now to make it official." Fleet accepts the knife and the sheet of metal. Then he kneels to set the sheet of metal on the nearest bleachers. He straightens, and runs the knife across the palm of his hand. With that knife, energon beaded along the edge, he begins to carve his name onto one of the lines. Redshift takes his turn now, taking the blade to do the task. He drives the knife into his forearm, and then etches his name onto the sheet of steelm soaked in his own fluid. "That should be appropriatly macabre." Catechism looks from Fleet to Redshift, who seems to be determined to outdo Fleet in everything, including bleeding. That's something she'd have to be... careful about, herself, considering the acid stored inside her. Catechism solemnly announces, "So it is done." She presses her hands together in front of her cockpit and nods her head once. "So shall it be." Redshift nods at Catechism's solemn proclamations. "Very well. I need to get these weights sawn off... Then, Fleet, when you are ready, we can begin." Fleet straightens and gives Redshift a single nod. "All right. I shall prepare your... lessons."